Apocalypse
by Calliope1
Summary: Tomorrow, they knew, would be a very bad day. But for tonight, for right now, they held each other, and pretended that she wasn't broken, and that he hadn't done the breaking. SeamusParvati


Disclaimer: If you recognize it, then it's not mine

A/N: I find this terribly sad...it was very difficult to write, because it kept twisting away from how I wanted it to be, but, I think I like this version better anyway.

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There was once a girl, with hair that brushed her shoulders in thick dark waves. Her mouth was happy,  
  
always smiling and laughing, _laughing_, the lines traced down around her dimples, giving her an air of constant   
  
mirth. Her mouth made those who regarded her carelessly define her vaguely as a happy sort of girl, one who  
  
didn't really know anything about the things that mattered. But her eyes were like the sea, and they were sad  
  
and lonely and tired, so _tired_, all the time, that those who looked at her a little closer saw she was a suffering  
  
character, a wise Scarlett O'Hara, a vaguely happy girl that was so **bitter**, that it was remarkable, really, how often  
  
her incandescent smile came.

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And then she fell in love. 

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She didn't know one thing about love, one thing about the pain and the shadows and the shivery,   
  
melting wave that enshrouds all those who claim to have known Eros intimately. She was too young and too   
  
_naive _to understand about sharing half of you with someone else, part of you with another person, who  
  
may or may not hurt you. She didn't know one thing about wondering where he is, or missing him, or holding him  
  
close. She didn't know one thing about hurting him, breaking him, loving him too hard. But she knew quite a bit   
  
about lonely nights, about insomnia, about dreaming of him while she was perfectly awake. She knew maybe too   
  
much about being happy when he was near, about wanting to make him that happy, too...about the slow, giddy   
  
tingle that crept up her spine when he lightly touched the inside of her wrist. She knew a lot about _that_. 

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He wasn't beatiful, she would sometimes muse, studying her face in the mirror, but, then again, neither   
  
was she. Her classic features, studied seperately, were lovely. Combined, however, they gave an appearance of   
  
something too straight and smooth to belong to somebody **real**. Her nose didn't fit her eyes, and her laughlines   
  
were sometimes too pronounced for a girl of seventeen. But he made her lovely, he made her beautiful, and his  
  
too-big, overly blue eyes made her classicly weak-at-the-knees, so she supposed the fact that he wasn't the   
  
tallest or the strongest could be overlooked. She was sure that he loved her, too, although he never said so in as  
  
many words. But he spoke to her a little softer, and he would sometimes touch her gently and look at her   
  
imploringly, as though pleading with her to simply _understand_. And he knew she did when her cloudy eyes   
  
cleared, and she smiled brilliantly, only for him. 

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There was sometimes a sadness that blurred at her, that smudged her around the edges, but it was too  
  
vague for her to ever properly define. The sadness sometimes weighed her down, ate at her like an acid, and she   
  
knew that she lived too hard, she loved too much, she was spreading herself too thin, and not setting anything  
  
aside for herself. She loved **him** probably the most, but he gave her something back, he didn't just take and take  
  
like all of the others, and she supposed that's why she loved him the way she did. Her sorrow wasn't as bleak  
  
when he was with her, for he soaked it up, and replaced it with some of his warmth, and, privately, they both   
  
wondered what would happen when the warmth was gone, and all there was left was her sadness. 

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Other times, there was a burning life in her, a crushing vibrancy that made her a churning, rumbling  
  
ribbon of laughter and warm, intertwined fingers and strawberry soft kisses in the moonlight. When she was like   
  
this, and she was so happy, he wouldn't worry about her and the coldness that sometimes creeped in. When she  
  
was like this, he would dream of marrying her, and of having lovely dark-haired babies with misty blue eyes that  
  
made people fall in love with them. When she was like this, he _loved _her so much that he forgot about her ghosts. 

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He held her one night, while the stars blazed far above, and they were tangled in the dewy grass. Her  
  
breath was sweet and smelled of peppermints, and he kissed her mouth to see if it tasted like them, too. She  
  
cried when he stopped kissing her, and said she was afraid of tomorrow, when they would have to leave, and not   
  
be together anymore. He buried his face in the generous expanse of her addicting hair, and let the tears run off   
  
of her face and onto his. Their weariness settled upon them, and, even though tomorrow marked their advance   
  
into adulthood, they felt so old and broken and battered that they were sure it rather marked the **apocalypse**.   
  
They both knew that they wouldn't see each other after tomorrow. They both knew that he was not enough to  
  
ever make them both _happy_. They were both aware of the immense price they had paid to be together: her,   
  
the last chance to drive out her demons; him, the sickening grief of watching her wither before his eyes.   
  
Tomorrow, they knew, would be a very **bad **day. But for tonight, for right now, they held each other, and   
  
pretended that she wasn't broken, and that he hadn't done the breaking.   
  
"Seamus," she whispered, softly, into the silver darkenss, "You know, I loved you for a while."  
  
He nodded mutely against her neck, and sighed into the heavy night air. 

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There was once a girl, with hair that brushed her shoulders in thick dark waves. Her mouth was happy,  
  
always smiling and laughing, _laughing_, the lines traced down around her dimples, giving her an air of constant   
  
mirth. 

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_And then she fell in love._


End file.
